A Bloody Sky
by TheHellWithIt
Summary: Bioshock Infinite setting. Focuses on events in Columbia w/ more realism. There'll be sex and such, graphic violence etc. (ergo the title). Oh and Booker/Liz pairing (incest), I choose to ignore dad/dau thing. Reviews are appreciated and... enjoy! Oh and major thanks to Bringthehawt/Katic for inspiring me to write this! Check out their writing as well, it's excellent!
1. Chapter 1

Bioshock Infinite Story

Booker DeWitt's didn't fight. He could see clearly, even through the mud and grime of the riverwater, Elizabeth's face. He could see her eyes go red with tears as she held him under halfheartedly. It was really more that he'd lost the will to live than Elizabeth's grip that held him beneath the surface. He shut his eyes, furrowing his brow, he wasn't afraid of death. He welcomed it. He deserved it. In his mind's eye his journey through Columbia materialized before him, seeing his daughter for the first time after falling hard through the skylight, her beautiful, breathtaking blue eyes. He opened his own, locked his gaze on hers and mouthed two words: "Forgive me." Then he opened his lungs to the ice cold water and allowed himself to drown.

Elizabeth finally let go of the corpse at her feet, her protector, her savior and liberator, her father. She let the current take him, but it refused, it took him but a few feet from her, washing his lifeless form up on the shore of the hill, beneath the chapel. Slowly, hugging herself, shaking she walked over to him and fell to her knees, unable to control herself she sobbed, burying her face in his chest, wishing desperately that he would come back to her. She collapsed beside him and pulled his head up onto her lap.

Even in death, he's handsome. She thought to herself as she ran her delicate fingers through his wet hair, along his cheek, bent over him protectively as if at any second vultures would swoop down and devour the man she so loved. Like this she slowly drooped until she was lying on top of DeWitt's body, and still holding his cold flesh she fell asleep.

"She's still here."

"Well so are we."

"But we ought be, she ought not."

"She's opened all the doors. She's universal."

"No she's not. Her loop's been broken, she shouldn't exist."

"Well by that logic neither should we, but we do."

"Do we?"

"Needn't question it now, we do, and she obviously does too."

"I still think she shouldn't"

"Well you're going to have to accept it, oh look, she's awake."

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered awake, she grasped for Booker, at least for his body, and was relieved to find him still cradled in her arms. Groggily she looked at the ground ahead of her, there were two pairs of shoes, neatly polished, clearly out of place. Turning her head up she looked up at the forms of Robert and Rosalind Lutece, not sure if she should be surprised, amazed, or both, but she didn't care. She could have made them disappear, but she couldn't be bothered, she didn't want anything anymore.

"You seem troubled."

"I'd say she is Robert."

"If you've something to say say please Rosalind."

"I've a great deal to say, starting with Mr. DeWit-"

"STOP!" Elizabeth cried out, furious her emotions swelled at hearing Rosalind Lutece say his name out loud, she didn't deserve to! She wasn't allowed to! She was the reason he was dead! She was the one who made Columbia possible, the one who created that damned machine! The one who allowed Comstock to steal her away! She glared up at them, barely holding back tears of both anger and sorrow.

Rosalind stared back, albeit somewhat vacantly, before turning to her brother: "Really now, unbecoming wouldn't you say?"

"Very." Robert agreed, "and to think we want to help."

"We do indeed."

"Indeed we do."

"Well that's if she accepts our help of course."

"Of course."

Elizabeth, unable to find the strength to get up stared up at the two pleadingly; "How… how are you going to help? How are you going to… what can you do? What can be done? What can anyone do?"

The twins looked down at her simultaneously. "Not anyone-" said Robert, "-just you." Finished Rosalind.

The poor girl shook her head; "I can't, if I do, I can't, not another Comstock, no more Columbia, if he comes back… I… and he…"

"Oh don't fuss, really Rosalind what is it with you women, always fussing about the problems, and her problem's been solved already!"

"Oh do be quiet Robert. That choker you're wearing, the cage pendant-"

Elizabeth reached to her neck instinctively, feeling the the smooth blue stone and the embossed, gilded, cage. Booker had chosen it, Booker was right to choose it, her life was a cage, she couldn't fly free if she wanted to, she couldn't leave him, she couldn't bring him back. The entire universe awaited her through the chapel doors just up the hill and she was trapped here, at the site of her beloved's ultimate misstep.

"was chosen over a hundred times-"

"123 to be precise-"

"By Booker DeWitt-"

"Every time he came to save you." Rosalind finished.

Elizabeth stared up at the twins blankly, her fingers still on the pendant of her choker.

"She doesn't understand does she?" asked Robert.

"Doesn't she?"

"No. I don't!" Interjected Elizabeth, her head looking down at Booker's lifeless form once again.

Rosalind, seemingly struck by a wave of compassion actually kneeled beside Elizabeth, her male counterpart still standing proudly, chin up.

"Elizabeth, Booker DeWitt is dead…"

The young girl's blue eyes narrowed angrily.

"…but he doesn't have to be."

"I know, but every reality where me and him can be is gone, now only Booker and Anna remain…" Elizabeth said, her voice trailing off.

"Not quite, you see the there is a handful of realities in which you, Comstock, Booker and Columbia all still remain."

Elizabeth looked up at him, anger and hopelessness swelling within her, everything had been for naught, even Booker's death was in vain, Columbia still existed, Zachary Comstock still existed! She opened her mouth to speak but never got the chance.

"You see," said Rosalind, "every reality which you and Booker went through together to get here wasn't destroyed because you still exist, and because you're omnipresent the reality matrix anchored in you doesn't allow that which you exist in to be destroyed."

"Else you'll be destroyed and that would destabilize space time, strangely enough." Added Robert.

"So the Columbia which Booker went through to find you, this Booker mind you," said Rosalind glancing down at the corpse without a shred of emotion, "still exists, but due to Booker's death the loop has been broken, therefore his fate is no longer pre-determined."

"Neither is yours." Said Robert, holding his hand out.

Rosalind grabbed hold of it and was helped up by her counterpart, back to her feet, strangely without a speck of dirt on her knees.

She stared at them somewhat confused, she'd understood what they said, but what could she do at this point? It was done.

"No you can't do anything directly." Said Robert as if reading her mind.

"But we can." Added Rosalind.

"With you, if you agree."

"Do you think she'll agree?"

"I don't know, but I refuse to keep a tally of it like we did with the coin."

"But it was very scientifically relevant, after all he did choose tails unlike the prev-"

"I agree!" Yelled out Elizabeth, "what do I have to do? Anything! What?"

"Do calm down."

"And don't interrupt."

"It's impolite."

"It is indeed."

"We can create a tear, and we can manipulate it to affect you in a manner that would otherwise not-"

"affect you." Stated the twins, finally ending in unison.

"It will remove you from immediate existence, but the Anna that was born and taken will still be born and taken."

"You will be born and taken."

"But with the loop broken-"

"DeWitt can save you."

"And he won't have to die."

"Again."

She thought of the possibility. Columbia all over again. "But won't I-"

"You won't. You won't be you, you won't be anything, you as you are will cease to exist." Stated Robert rather matter-of-factly.

"But you won't be dead, rather you'll be…"

"Reincarnated?"

"Reincarnated."

"Strange concept."

"Indeed."

Elizabeth stared at the odd couple, dumbfounded, was it really possible? Could Booker endure Columbia once more, save her once more, would they be together at last? Then the dark thought came to her mind. Could Booker endure Columbia once more? He failed 122 times before succeeding, what made her think that with his fate no longer certain he'd fare better?

"There is one risk."

"Just one."

"A big one."

"Very true."

"If Booker-"

"fails." Whispered Elizabeth, much to the twins' surprise.

"She does understand."

"Indeed she does."

"Do you think she'll agree?"

"I don't know, shall we leave it to fate?" Said Robert, procuring from his pocket a coin.

"Heads?"

"Heads."

Robert flipped the coin. Rosalind caught it.

Elizabeth didn't notice, she was busy, she was thinking, she was racking her brain, trying to decide. Did she trust Booker enough, would he? Could he?

He could. Of course he could! She hated herself for even considering the idea that Booker would fail. But without the predetermined fate she couldn't be sure he would succeed. She bit her lip and looked at the twins hopefully.

"Was it heads or tails?" asked Robert.

"I'll not say."

Elizabeth gently placed her love's head on the ground, to her he wasn't a father, he was truly her one and only love. She couldn't bear the idea of existence on any plane of reality without him. Just before getting up she bent down to his face and gently kissed his lips, ice cold as they were, then got up, her dress in tatters, filthy from mud and river water among all else that it had survived.

Standing up straight, proud, a posture and confidence befitting The Lamb of Columbia: "Do it."

The Luteces stared at the petite girl in front of them, Robert snapped his fingers and a tear opened, the bright white light engulfing Elizabeth. Time was twisted, it was reset, and just as Elizabeth ceased to exist, Booker DeWitt came back into existence, awaking and running from his baptism into an unknown future.


	2. Chapter 2

Booker DeWitt cursed loudly as he dropped his broadsider pistol when the chair swung about; the red velvet was comfortable, the armrests hand carved and elegant, it would have been the perfect throne if he wasn't shackled to it and about to explode. He gritted his teeth as the building shook: "What kind of hellish lighthouse is this? What maniac thought this up?" He yelled, just as he finished his sentence an automated voice dictated; "ascension", and the pilgrim rocket erupted into the sky. Booker stared out the window, calm now, his hands were still bound to the armrests, he couldn't do anything now but enjoy the ride. As the rocket shot upwards the bindings were released.

"5000 feet." Stated the machine.

Booker relaxed somewhat and reached into his vest, pulling out a pack of Old Gold's, flipping it on it's side he gently extracted a single cigarette, replacing the pack carefully and taking out a box of matches. Even in a shaky rocket he took his time to appreciate the cigarette's smell, and if this was going to be the last one he ever enjoyed he was determined to enjoy it to its fullest. Old Gold's had been given to him in the military, back then it was his tobacco rations, now it was all he smoked. Just as the machine announced 10,000 feet, DeWitt struck his match lit his cigarette and inhaled, the nicotine entering his bloodstream instantly, and very, very, pleasantly.

He was surprised at how still the air in the little shuttle was, despite the shaking of the pod itself, the match had lit with ease and hadn't gone out.

"Sturdy construction, who knows, it might all work out." He said to himself calmly, taking another puff. The cigarette was halfway through when the voice announced an altitude of 15,000 feet. Booker watched calmly as he shot into a cloud, the lightning storm receding beneath him. Another puff.

"Hallelujah!" he heard, and as he shot above cloud level his eyes widened, he dropped his cigarette to the compartment floor and stared blankly at the scene before him. A seemingly endless archipelago of floating islands, each one covered in buildings, not a single space was unused, and it was all connected, by rails, skylines, bridges. Now he knew what had caused the sky to glow red when he struck those three bells at the lighthouse, but this was beyond anything he'd imagined; a true floating city. He couldn't help but admire the architecture, everything was clean, cared for, the buildings looked new, the paint all looked fresh, the myriad of flags and posters hanging across the city untarnished and not faded. His eyes jumped from island to island, this must be the size of New York, he concluded. Bigger even! His eyes were inevitably drawn to the massive statue of an angel in the city's centre, beautiful and elegant, greater than anything he'd ever seen. There was no way to deny it that statue alone must have been one of the world's wonders, and this city, the wonder of the universe! Then his eyes were treated to a peculiar sight; freight crates shot by his window along a rail line, chaperoned on either side by men riding along on some kind of strange hooked glove and… carrying very big guns. He didn't have time to get a good look, but those looked like shotguns, big ones. It was a logical choice if they ever had to use them while riding those lines he concluded, but this place looked like utopia, not a city that was prone to violence.

Still… where there's guns, there's trouble. I wonder if capital punishment here involves getting kicked out of town, he thought with a smile.

Finally his little shuttle landed, he felt almost helpless as the machine descended down a vertical shaft. Some religious indoctrination was chiseled into the walls of the shaft, but Booker didn't pay attention to that, his mind was thinking of opportunity… and his mission. Booker pulled the little chest from inside his vest and opened it, studying the contents closely, there was a note detailing his instructions, various photos, a key, and a brown sheepskin bag. He gathered the photos and put them into his inside pocket, beside the Old Gold's, then opened the bag, inside was a small fortune. 300 american silver dollars. He couldn't believe his eyes! He smiled wildly carefully taking out some of the money and checking if it was really silver; these stopped getting minted back in the 1800's! He grinned to himself, then carefully, realizing his journey might be at an end soon, he split up the money between his pockets, a compartment in his vest, and a hefty sum still in the pouch which he tied to his belt. Double checking that the box was empty he pried of the nameplate so it couldn't be traced back to him and left it, knowing lugging the thing around was pointless.

He thought to himself, why go back, why not stay here? I've got money, I have skills, I'm good with a bloody gun, and it's not like the mafia's going to come looking for me at 20'000 feet! He said out loud, laughing. Then he remembered the lighthouse, the dead man in the chair, a bullet through his forehead. DeWitt's expression darkened, he had to complete his mission regardless, then he could take his reward and come back here.

As the shuttle finally settled and the compartment door opened Booker DeWitt stepped out confidently, if slightly off-balance, he adjusted his vest, made sure the money in his pocket's wouldn't fall out or make noise, and walked forward carefully. This wasn't the first time he was tasked with finding someone, and the best way to blend in is to believe that you belong. He marched into a huge foyer and into… "A cathedral?" Booker whispered under his breath, it was massive, the stained glass windows were immensely detailed, the vaulted ceilings and endless numbers of candles… He kept walking forward and stepped into a puddle. Surprised he looked down, and noticed that the entire place was flooded. At first he panicked. Then he saw a priest in the far corner, standing calmly head down as if in prayer. DeWitt realized it must be holy water, not a flood, and crossed himself, then marched into the water, straight through the atrium and down a spiraling staircase, down which water also cascaded like a waterfall.

At the bottom was another hall, also flooded, candles floating along the water's surface as priests, numbered in the tens maybe in the hundreds all marched to a great portal on the far end. Strangely, the aisle into which he emerged was empty, he strode forward alone.

"A miracle town full of bloody fanatics." He grumbled, cursing the loss of his gun right now, feeling horribly naked. Booker reached the portal, his boots full of water now, the icy water was up to his hips, and he was terribly glad the photos were in his breast pocket, he'd need those yet. and pushed through the crowd of priests, trying his utmost to look intimidating, religious fanatics always made him feel uneasy, you could never predict what they would do next, and whether being peaceful was part of their oaths.

Once DeWitt finally reached the front of the crowd he was greeted with a strangely familiar face, he couldn't put his finger on it, but the undoubtedly "venerable sir something-or-other" looked incredibly familiar. Seeing DeWitt's ragged exterior the man called out.

"Clear a path my brothers! We have a new man among us!"

Booker had no doubt this was about him, he cringed as the priest came at him and pulled him from the crowd of worshippers; "Look pal I'm not here to cause trouble, I just want to get into the city alright? So how about you just step out of my way and we part friends?" DeWitt asked, hopefully.

"The only way into the great city of Columbia is through redemption! Convert brother! Let yourself be baptized in the holy waters of Columbia! Will you join us brother? Will you let yourself be baptized?" Answered the priest fanatically.

I want my fucking gun. Thought Booker, but knowing his options weren't many he stepped forward and took the priests outstretched hand. Instantly he felt the priest trying to force him under the water, he struggled, desperately trying to pull the photos from his pocket, to save the fragile paper. He succeeded, barely, at keeping his arm, the papers in hand, above water level as the rest of him was forced down. The icy feeling enveloping him felt strangely familiar, his vision blurred, through the clear water he could see a face, it wasn't that of the old priest, but a young girl's face, her eyes an icy blue. He was held under, and the strangest feeling of surrender enveloped him, his hand dropped, sinking, and his eyes began to shut and he imagined the face of the young girl, he'd seen it before. He knew that face, and somehow, he felt very out of place.

The next thing Booker DeWitt knew he was outside, kneeling in a shallow pool of water at the bottom of a staircase. How he'd gotten here, he knew not. Where here was, he didn't know either. DeWitt turned around and saw the exit to the portal behind him leading off into the darkness of the cathedral, its structure towering above him. But he couldn't understand how he'd gotten outside. Still, it didn't matter, he got up, legs shaking, and slowly got to the top of the stairs. On a bench he saw the photographs, his pack of Old Gold's, matches, and a pouch of money sitting untouched. He grabbed both, and found the pouch full again, he checked his pockets, they'd been emptied. He couldn't be sure how much money there'd been initially, but something told him it was all there. Falling onto the bench he rubbed his temples, and noted that his entire upper body was dry, how long was I on my knees he wondered. What the hell is going on? He found one more thing mixed among his belongings; a note, it was small, the paper was old, frayed, as if it'd been through a lot. When he picked it up it was all he could do to keep it from crumbling between his fingers.

"Mr. DeWitt, this is your last chance. Please, do not fail, for both your sakes. R.L."

DeWitt couldn't figure out what in hell the note meant, even though it was addressed to him. He shrugged it off, curious, but oblivious to it's true meaning. A thought ran through his head, the only theory that seemed plausible; his employers were checking up on him. Still, it was cryptic, and who was R.L.?

It was time to do his job, and if there was one thing Booker had learned, it was that the local barkeep was the man who generally knew everything about everybody.


	3. Chapter 3

DeWitt passed through the garden, roses grew up the walls as if they'd been growing there for centuries, the grass was green, trimmed, white marble arches encircled and passed through the garden. A veritable garden of eden, he thought to himself, Adam himself couldn't have thought up a better image… Booker blocked out the thoughts of religion, his job didn't involve god, hell his life didn't. He wasn't a religious man, but that image of the incredible angel statue was stuck in his head, the one he'd seen upon his arrival. It really was beautiful, and it rekindled a small part of his piousness inside him; the statue and being so high in the sky, so close to the heavens. The feeling was almost spiritual… he crossed himself.

It was probably just the thin oxygen at such high an altitude.

Booker stalked through the garden like an animal, trying to blend into the background, hoping no more priests would notice him, being baptized once was more than enough.

The blue eyes he saw when thrust under the water were beautiful… tragic, but beautiful. He couldn't help but think about that image as he walked along. He knew those eyes. He knew that face.

It didn't take too long to reach the brass doorway that lead out of the Garden of Eden and into the city, and Booker didn't dawdle. He swung the door open and marched out into the town, eyes cast down, keeping out of the crowd's view.

Booker DeWitt wasn't a particularly big man, he had broad shoulders, and a muscled build, but he wasn't huge by any means, in fact he was relatively short, if stocky. Still, his eyes echoed a ferocity that wasn't common, and a hateful gaze that came with years of bloody deeds. If you looked close you'd see the pity and sorrow behind the outward intolerance; perhaps that was what bothered Booker most about those icy blue eyes, the way they saw through him.

Still, his eyes narrowed and he walked on, casting all distractions from his mind as he tried to zero in on which establishment seemed to attract the most clientele. Which one was the local bar, the everyday spot?

It wasn't hard, Booker knew liquor better than he knew himself, he could smell whiskey like a bloodhound, and pretty soon he found himself inside a pub, it was a little bit rundown, but it had the feel of a popular drinking hole, the wear and tear that kill a bar day by day was evident if you knew how to spot it. Despite the sunshine outside the establishment, it was dark inside, candles lighting the tables, the far corners pitch black. He could make see people sitting around tables but a fog of smoke seemed to envelop the pub, hiding faces and identities, and the smell of tobacco hung strongly in the air.

He lit up a cigarette.

Making his way to the very back DeWitt sat down at the bar end, it didn't take long for the barkeep to come up to him; "You don't see a new man in this town too often." It wasn't a judgment, moreso a statement, an observation. The barkeeper seemed a cultured man, his clothes were old and frayed, but clean and well upkept, as if it was the man's last suit and he couldn't bare to part with it. He sported a moustache on his face, long, and waxed, the ends tweaked upwards in a culturad fashion.

"Ernest. Ernest Jacoby. Welcome to Columbia." Stated the man, a simple introduction, his hand outstretched.

DeWitt answered simply; "Hello."

If Mr. Jacoby was surprised by the curt response he didn't show it, instead he simply carried on, retracting his hand to wipe a cognac snifter; "What can I get you? The liquor's cheap tonight, in honor of separation day."

DeWitt's gut lurched, he couldn't help but want whiskey in him, the familiar oblivion of a drunken stupor. But there was a time and place for that, and this was neither.

"I hadn't realized it was that apparent that I was new."

"I've got a well trained eye, sir. So can I get you anything?" the bartender asked, pressing the question.

DeWitt nodded; "I've got some questions. I'll pay you for your time, and for your discretion." DeWitt withdrew three silver eagles, and slid them across the counter.

Jacoby glanced around the bar, before pocketing the coins on the counter and turned back to DeWitt, his expression stern and focused now. "How can I help you traveller?"

"I imagine you must get most of Columbia's residents in here sooner or later, I'm looking for someone."

Jacoby smiled, his moustache moving with his lips, "I'm proud to say that I remember the face of every man who's been to my establishment."

"It's not a man. It's a girl." Booker withdrew the photograph from his vest pocket, glancing at the girl on the paper briefly, before handing it to Ernest.

The bartender looked at the pretty face in the photo, suspiciously. He knew who this was of course, but it was also private information. "What would a man like you need with a pretty young thing like this? There's undoubtedly far more attractive women in Columbia." Even as he said it he cursed himself for being so tactless, Ernest knew how to read people and the stranger across from him certainly wasn't looking for the girl to have a good time, not _this _girl.

DeWitt reached out for the photograph, unfazed by the comment; "Do you know her?"

"No, regretfully I don't think I've ever seen her in my establishment. She's real pretty though, might I ask what you want with this girl?"

DeWitt weighed his answer… "I've paid you enough not to ask questions."

Jacoby was dumbfounded; the girl on the picture was the Seed of the Prophet, of course most people didn't have this knowledge, and Jacoby was proud that he knew what he knew, he also wasn't stupid enough to blurt it to every passerby who asked.

"Sorry I couldn't be of more help to you sir." He poured a glass of whiskey, neat, and placed it in front of DeWitt, "On the house."

DeWitt finished his whiskey, downing the glass in a single gulp, the familiar taste pleasing his palette, the question of ordering another was on his mind, and his willpower was weak. Just as he was about to make motion for the barkeep to come back, Mr. Jacoby swung by and left him with a single sentence; "Come back at 5am." Then he poured another glass in silence and placed it in front of DeWitt, without so much as a request for payment, and went on to his other customers.

DeWitt drank the glass, he'd had enough experience with clandestine operations in his life to know when not to ask questions out loud; still, as he sat he couldn't help but think, was E. Jacoby a trustworthy character?

Booker DeWitt got up and left the bar, leaving another silver dollar on the counter for good measure. The first question to address was fitting in, he wouldn't get anywhere if he stuck out, and Jacoby had pinned him for being new in a second. He stopped to look at his reflection in a window, it wasn't surprising really, his clothes, though dry now, were wrinkled and had a worn look to them. His pockets were bulging with money, cigarettes and other junk. His hair was matted and all in all, he had a generally unkempt look about him.

A tailor was his first stop, a barber second, DeWitt drank in the beauty of Columbia as he walked its streets, half expecting the ground to fall out from under him he stepped gingerly, a flying city it was bloody unnatural is what it was. Late evening had rolled around by the time Booker was dressed and presentable; he wore new pinstriped pants and a new shirt black shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows in an italian fold. His vest was ironed and clean, the leather lapels shining, the white design on them standing out brightly, a new watch hung on a chain, tucked neatly into his breast pocket, and the the tailor's advice he'd added a silk cravat to complete the outfit. He passed his reflection again, this time not glancing but stopping to admire himself. Vanity had never been Bookers weakness, but then again he so rarely look good and clean, he didn't know if it was the high altitude or the general incredulity he felt at his current situation, but his stomach wasn't begging for whiskey as it usually did.

It amazed him that this transformation had occurred within a kilometer radius from the bar and the shuttle station, it was as if all new arrivals to Columbia were expected to re-invent themselves, become someone new, someone clean and presentable. This was the thought on his mind when a ginger boy with a mick accent ran up to him; "Mister! Hey Mister! Need yer shoes cleaned eh mister? I'll make em shine for you cheap mister, promise!" Booker was taken aback, this kid was the first person to really acknowledge him and call him out since Jacoby. He stared down at his shoes, and they were dirty, he realised they were the only thing he hadn't even considered cleaning or changing, mostly because shining his own shoes'd been drilled into him in his military days. He was about to refuse, when he considered that he'd been in Columbia a day, spent a good sum of money, and still wasn't anywhere in terms of the job he'd been sent to do… and street urchins tended to have keen ears; he knew because he'd been one before he'd been able to join the military. It was why he'd gotten on so well with a rifle in his hands, because violence had been bred into him on the streets… "Alright kid."

The boy brightened visibly, grabbing DeWitts free hand and dragging him over to an old chair on the side of the street, with makeshift footstools nailed to it. DeWitt sat down and put his legs up, allowing the boy to go to work, as he lit up another cigarette he asked, "You alone?".

"Aww no mister, me mums just at home."

"Where's your dad?"

"My pa? He works o'er at Fink, same with me big brothers, imma work there too when I get old enough. Ma don' want me too though."

"What's Fink?"

"Ain't you never 'eard o' ol' Jermiah Fink? He own's half Columbia he does! Richest man 'ere, 'cept the prophet o'course. Me Da says he's a real prick though, and he don't pay much, but it's the only place to get work really." said the boy, applying a coat of black shine to DeWitt's left shoe.

"What makes him so successful? What kind of business does Fink run?"

"Fink? He runs everythin' 'ere in Columbia, anything you could want! 'cept books, maybe," said the boy with a snicker, "But who needs 'ose things anyhow eh mister?"

The boy stopped and took a moment to wipe his brow with his blackened sleeve, leaving a dark mark across his pale forehead, then kept working… and talking; "I 'ear that Finks gone and made this thing that lets people shoot fire! Or-or-or… or take over minds! Honest mister, swear on the Prophet I do!"

DeWitt couldn't help but chuckle at the child's imagination, but Fink sounded like a man who knew a thing or two about Columbia.

The boy started blowing on DeWitt's shoe, trying to dry it faster so that he could polish off the excess and be done with his client.

"Why can't you find work elsewhere if Fink doesn't pay well?"

"Ain't no one else gonna hire us, I can promise you that mister! He ain't bad really all bad as far as them founder folk go, i'll tell yah; at least he gives us jobs n' all."

Booker realised what the kid was trying to say, and found himself surprised, things were hardly perfect down below, but not so much for the irish anymore, sure for the niggers and the natives… he winced at the thought, his memories of fighting natives coming back as they always did. In any case it seemed that things in Columbia weren't as civil as they seemed.

"Tell me about the rest of Columbia kid, what else is there besides this part of town?"

The boy gave DeWitt a puzzled look as he did a final once-over on the mans shoes. "Er… well sir you've got this 'ere place, s'called the welcome center, no one really calls it that though. And you got Finkton, o'course, s'where me family and meself live, in the shantytown. And you got Soldier's field, s'nice there, me mum takes us there when it's someone's birthday, but this year we ain't gone yet, she says we've not got the money. Oh and there's this Emporia place, I ain't never been there though sir. Few smaller places too o'course, but that's the biguns"

The boy finished up, admiring his own reflection in the black leather, and got off his knees; "That'll be 5c sir." He announced proudly.

DeWitt reached into his pocket and withdrew a photograph, the child a visibly nervous expression when the man whose shoes he'd just polished didn't produce any money from his pocket but just stood with his hand slightly outstreched.

"What's this place?" He asked, handing the child the photograph of the massive angel.

The boy hesitantly glanced at the picture, as if afraid to take his eyes off the man, then handed it back.

"S' the big ol' statue sir. S'got it's own island too, called monument island."

"How do I get there."

"You can't, there's a big fence, and guards, I don't know why but folk ain't allowed 'round there sir. Now… err… please sir s'only 5c. Your shoes are real clean, honest."

DeWitt grinned, he reached into his pocket and withdrew several dollars, handing them to the boy. The child stared dumbfounded at the gleaming silver coins. "Take these, go home, anyone tries to stop you, you run kid." He slapped the boy upside the head, "Start running already."

DeWitt followed the boy with his eyes, then glanced down at his shoes, they were very well cleaned.

He'd never been so generous except at a roulette table when he was on military leave, but then again in the back of his mind DeWitt still suspected this floating city to be not more than a very vivid dream, and besides, that was probably what the child made in a month.

Now the question was how to get to "Monument Island". And what was so special about this girl that she had her own private security force guarding her.

As DeWitt walked in the direction of the statue, intent on inspecting the security around it, he kept his eyes peeled; the boy hadn't been lying, all the blacks, macks, chinks and paddys were doing the shite labor. It wasn't too different where he was from, but there at least people were allowed to enter stores, at least the irishmen were.

Booker silently thanked the gods that his own irish roots were well hidden, his english proper and his face american. The only thing that really gave him away was his love of whiskey.


	4. Chapter 4

As night fell the city really came to life, Booker had seen signs and flyers about Independance day, but now it was starting full swing, people were locking up their shops and coming out with a drink already in their hand, youth ran around with bottles and girls giggled between each other. Beside him a couple walked hand in hand and DeWitt felt a pain, a longing for a woman. He couldn't quite place it, it wasn't sexual, rather emotional, but he brushed off the inexplicable feeling, a stern frown forming on his face.

He let the crowd push him along, stopping to light a cigarette and check his pocketwatch; 23:00 hours. Someone stepped on his shoe and he cursed them quietly, the ginger childs hard work wouldn't last. It occurred to Booker that he'd never even asked the boy his name.

Before long the crowd found its way onto a broad boulevard, the huge statue at the end of the sea of people. Booker picked up the pace slightly, hoping he would find a spot near the statue, then remembered what the boy had said about the monument having it's own private island. The crowd emptied out onto a massive brick plaza, with the statue looming over it, surrounded by a perimeter of trees, a stage had been erected at the far end of the plaza, and guards stood near it. Booker stayed out the outskirts of the crowd, glancing left and right, he'd never been too worried about his height, his rather short build allowed for good balance, and a solid center of gravity for when he found himself in hand-to-hand. But right now he wished he were taller, so he could see over the sea of top hats and done up hairdoos. Cursing under his breath he entered the ever-growing crowd, pushing his way through towards the looming statue.

DeWitt was happy for the crowd at least, he knew he'd stand out much less surrounded by drunken party-goers than if he were alone skulking about, but worry gripped him nonetheless.

He finally made it to the far end of the crowd, the road towards the statue was surrounded by gardens, saplings and bushes grew all around, thick trees forming a dense brush between them, and a wrought-iron fence ran behind them, barely visible in the darkness of night. He made for the cover of the bushes, moving through them in silence, leaving the party behind. As he neared a iron archway he slowed, scanning his surroundings, beyond the archway stood roughly 20 men, dressed in the blue colors of Columbia's law enforcement. They all had rifles in hand and DeWitt had no doubt that visitor's weren't welcome. He wondered if this was the standard detail or if the security had been amped up for the party.

He was about to move forward to see what else they had guarding the entrance when he heard a hoarse voice behind him; "Turn back."

DeWitt spun round, in his crouched position and found himself staring at the waist of black robe. He grabbed for his gun, then clenched his fists tight when he realised that he was unarmed, cursing himself for not having gotten some sort of weapon. Instantly jerking his head up he found himself staring at a pointed black hood, the face was covered, and there were slits for eyeholes. Slowly DeWitt stood up, ready to jump into combat at any second.

The figure before him was robed in all black, he had chains adorning his arms chest, locking what looked like a massive coffin to his back, in one of his hands was gripped a gleaming blade, it's edges covered with nicks and imperfections… and blood stains. DeWitt's breathing went shallow, it was as if a demon stood before him, and he couldn't help but falter, taking a step back, his face pale.

"Leave." The man said. The mask remained immobile as if there was no mouth moving under it when he spoke.

DeWitt was covered in cold sweat. Slowly he nodded and stepped to side, before walking towards the lights and sounds of the party. He held his breath and his heart pounded, palms wet with sweat. He'd gone about 4 paces before looking back, and found that the… creature, had disappeared, and crows were flying around where he had stood. DeWitt broke into a panicked run, and didn't stop until he was in the crowd again.

He was reeling, keeled over holding his knees to catch his breath and calm himself. A few party-goers glanced at him, but no one paid him much mind, except one fellow who came over and offered DeWitt a glass of whiskey.

DeWitt glanced up, eyes wide, half-expecting to see the hooded figure again; frantically, he pushed aside the glass and grabbed the bottle from the man's hand, taking down several massive swigs, before handing it back in silence, without so much as a nod of gratitude.

The fellow stared at DeWitt blankly, grasping the bottle again, then laughed and said something about how well DeWitt drank, before moving on. DeWitt checked his watch, it was close to 01:00 now. He figured it was time to head to the bar, no more exploring tonight, he wanted to know about this city, what in gods name kept it afloat, demons in the woods, the fucking statue security… it was time to head back to Jacoby's bar.

As Booker pushed his way through the crowd back in the direction he'd come from, a great cheer erupted from the crowd, he looked around to see what was causing it and found that the stage had lit up, curtains drawn, and a single figure was onstage bowing, his hat pressed to his chest. "WELCOME! WELCOME TO ALL OF COLUMBIA'S FINEST!" Called the voice, amplified somehow. "Welcome to the annual independance day raffle!" Booker turned and kept walking away, he was in no mood for a party, and his gut ached for whiskey to calm his nerves, if that were even possible. As he reached the main boulevard, empty now except for stragglers and young couples kissing in the shadows his pace quickened. His hands were in his pockets clenched into fists when he heard a sob; "Let go o' me! I didn't steal nothin'! Honest I didn't!"

Booker DeWitt held his breath as he turned to look. The boy who'd shined his shoes was struggling, tears streaming from his eyes, a cop gripped him tightly by the forearm, "Don't you lie to me boy, where's a street urchin like you get money like that? I know you nicked it from someone you lil mick."

In his other hand the cop held the handful of silver dollars; "Now tell me who you stole it from damn you!"

They boy sobbed loudly, and everyone who'd been standing nearby had cleared away, except DeWitt who stood frozen, his fists still clenched, his mind racing.

"I didn't steal it! A man gave it to me for shinin' 'is shoes!" He spun his head around frantically and saw Booker, the tears stopped and his eyes went wide. "Him, 'im right there! Mister please tell him you gave me the money good 'n honest mister! I only asked you for 5c mister please, you can 'ave it back mister please just tell him! Me ma'll be worried mister please!" The boy begged, his lip quivering. The cop glanced up at DeWitt, "You gave this urchin a fortune?" He glanced down at DeWitt's shoes, which were stained with dirt and mud from moving through the bushes, "for… shining your shoes?"

DeWitt bit his tongue, then shook his head. "Never seen that kid in my life." He turned to walk away, the child's screams chasing after him; "Mister please! You can have the money back please! I'm beggin' you mister please! Please tell him! Please!"

DeWitt kept walking, he felt nauseous, he couldn't risk trouble with the police for some idiot kid. Why didn't you run home damn it? He muttered under his breath… I told you to fucking run home…

He stopped and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, what could he say, and why in gods name would the cop believe him after he'd refused to take the money back in the first place? He wasn't here to save everyone, he wasn't here to save anyone for that matter, he was just here to find a girl and bring her back to sea level.

DeWitt set his jaw and took another step forward, his legs heavy. He forced himself to keep walking. The child's screams fading in the background as he was manhandled away.


	5. Chapter 5

DeWitt had concluded that he had to trust someone if he was going to get anywhere in this city, and made his way to Jacoby's establishment, glancing over his shoulder almost every second. It wasn't a long road, but DeWitt took a wrong turn here and there, stopping to smoke a cigarette and calm himself down. The ache in his chest from abandoning the child wasn't going away, neither was the image of the cloaked creature that had been burned into his mind.

He made it at 04:00 o'clock, nearly to the minute. The curtains on the windows were shut, the tables and chairs out front were all stacked and put away. The only sign that anyone was present in the bar was a very faint line of light emanating from under the door. DeWitt wondered again about Jacoby's trustworthiness, but opened the door and stepped inside.

Instantly he had about 20 guns pointed at his head. The bar looked like a war room, maps were spread out across the counter, several of the tables had guns lines up along them, others had daggers and knives, or cases of bullets in neat stacks. DeWitt scanned the people, they were all dressed in red in one way or another, scarves, bandannas, armbands… all except for Jacoby, who stood and stared at DeWitt with his hand on the beer tap, the pint that he'd been pouring had overflown over length of the silence.

"I… I said 5. Goddamn it I told you 5."

DeWitt instantly felt like a fool, just like the child, he hadn't listened, he'd been told to come at 5, and judging by the hardset faces of the gun-wielding folk, they might shoot him over it. Still he set his jaw, determined not to show fear, besides after the demonic creature he'd seen earlier, a bullet to the head didn't seem all that terrifying.

Out of the crowd of people a black woman stepped forward, she was dressed in green pants that looked a couple of sizes to big, and a tucked in white blouse, the outfit held together with a big leather belt around her midsection. Her brown curly hair was done up in a ponytail and her hand was up, pointing a gun at Booker. She stood sideways, making her bust quite apparent as well, and Booker grinned, after all he'd never been threatened by a woman in his life.

"You've got until I count to 3 to explain why you're here. Then I blow your head off… One."

"I was invited."

"Two."

"By the barkeep. Now stop pointing that at me unless you're going to shoot."

The woman faltered, she wasn't used to anyone speaking to her in this kind of tone, not face to face. Keeping the gun pointed she turned over to Jacoby, "Who is this fool?"

"He's… I don't really know, but I think he might be useful. I told him to be here at 5!"

"You invited a bloody stranger to one of our meetings? Give me one reason why I shouldn't blow his head off and then yours?"

DeWitt took his eyes off the black woman and glanced at Jacoby, he was white as a sheet, and obviously took the womans excessive threats quite seriously. It was time to act.

In one swift motion he'd sidestepped the girl grabbed her gun, twisted it from her hand and grabbed her around the neck, pulling her close, the barrel pressed to her temple.

Instantly everyone else cocked their weapons and ran over, surrounding the couple.

DeWitt found himself in a curious position, his position highly unusual. He hadn't yelled at or threatened a woman since his bloody days in the military, much less actually harmed one. Yet here he was with a gun pressed to a black woman's temple; granted she'd threatened him first but he still didn't like finding himself in this position. He noticed the woman wasn't struggling, she'd obviously been in a position like this in the past.

Jacoby ran nervously from behind the bar. "Do let go of her, or we'll both be dead."

"I let go of you, you tell me your men to put your guns down, got it?"

The woman scoffed, "they won't shoot without my order anyway"

He took his hand off her throat and pushed her away, keeping the gun trained on her head.

"Now, I was invited to be here. So I expect to find out what's going on."

The black woman turned to Jacoby, grinning sadistically, "Yes, Ernest, what is going on?"

Jacoby was visibly jumpy, he glanced back and forth between the stranger in the doorframe and the black woman. Then leant in and whispered into her ear.

Instantly her grin went to a scowl, "what does he want from her, how does he even know about her if he's new in Columbia?"

Booker caught on quickly, he knew his explanation wouldn't fly. "Doesn't matter how I know, what am I doing here?"

Jacoby sighed and shrugged; "If you all plan on killing each other, some introductions might be in order: This is Daisy Fitzroy, and you sir are?"

"Booker DeWitt." He grinned, keeping the woman's own gun aimed at her head, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Daisy made a motion with her hand and everyone slowly put down their guns, Booker did the same, but didn't even consider tucking it into his pants; he was confident he was the best shot, and fastest on the draw, but he couldn't compete with 20 bullets.

Besides the gun in his hand couldn't possibly have more than 15 bullets in the magazine.

"Alright Booker DeWitt, what do you need with the girl?"

He pointed his gun at Jacoby, "You said you didn't know who she was you lying rat." The barkeep whitened all over again, standing stiff as a sheet.

"He shouldn't know who she is, if the prophet had it his way no one would know who she is except him, no one's seen her in 19 years."

It was Booker's turn to be surprised, he lowered his gun, there was no way he'd been sent here on a wild goose chase… was there? He knew from his time as a Pinkerton that when they were looking for a person, if more than a month had passed they were looking for a body. 19 years… that was an unheard of number. That was from the last century. Finally his mind wrapped around the fact that she'd been an infant and he blurted out; "Maybe the infant died, and your prophet fellow just covered it up."

"Think fool, if she was dead we wouldn't very well know what she looked like."

"She's hidden. He thought about the photos… "she's in the tower, isn't she?"

"She is, and getting there isn't easy. Now what do you want with her?"

Booker debated telling Fitzroy, "You first."

"We want her dead." She answered simply, "She's the prophet's successor, and we can't have that."

DeWitt nodded, thinking of how to phrase his reply; "I think we can come to an accord, let her live, and you'll never see her again."

"You never told us what you want with her."

"I've been hired to take her back to the ground, Ms. Fitzroy, if that suits you."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then I'm not walking out of here alive am I?"

"You're not stupid for a grunt. Alright, you might be of use to us." Instantly she switched into a leadership role, if she was in charge before, now her word was law. With a clap of her hands everyone was finalizing the details on maps, loading guns and double checking blades.

"What's all this for?" Asked Booker, walking with Fitzroy towards the bar.

"Until your rude interruption," she answered, "we were planning on how to take down Fink after today's celebration, his guard will be heavy, but not half as heavy as it is when he's stationed in Finkton."

"Fink? He was at the celebration?"

"He was onstage, planning the stoning of an innocent couple, just because their union was racially frowned upon." As she said the words it was apparent from her voice how deeply she hated Fink. "Now go talk to Jacoby, he'll catch you up, I've got business to attend to." With that she swerved off and leant over a map with another man, whose face was covered with a bandana as if to prove how macho he was.

DeWitt sat down at the far end of the bar, mind reeling at how close he was to Fink… a man who could undoubtedly bring his target. Claiming the same seat he'd been in earlier he pointed at a bottle of whiskey on the far shelf, this was too much to process without liquor. Lots of liquor.

Jacoby scurried over, visibly relieved that everything had ended without him getting shot, or his bar for that matter, and placed the bottle and a whiskey glass in front of DeWitt, not daring to ask the man for money apparently.

DeWitt poured a glass in silence, slammed it back then poured another, spinning it between his fingers. "First question Jacoby. Who's the prophet."

"Well as far as we know the Prophet, his full name being Zachary Comstock, is the founder of Columbia, crazy old coot really, thinks he's god. Brilliant beard though, he makes appearances quite often and he's always very well-"

"The short version. Jacoby."

Ernest calmed down somewhat, it was obvious that he was a man who talked alot under pressure. "Dictator of Columbia."

"And why do these… people, want him dead?"

"Well, why do you think? He supports stoning an interracial couple on independance day, you've only been here one day but I'm sure you've seen the difference in treatment haven't you? And these _people_, Mr. DeWitt, are the Vox Populi. Freedom fighters."

DeWitt finished his second glass and nodded, pouring a third.

"Third Question. What do you have to gain from all this? You're as white as they come."

Jacoby visibly fumed at this, as if offended by the idea that he wasn't at heart a humanitarian, then finally giving up he leant in and whispered. "Profits Mr. DeWitt, my bar will go under soon if I don't get more clientele, and which establishment do you think will be the most popular after the coup? Why, the establishment that hosted the revolution of course."

DeWitt scoffed, then drank his third glass, his eyes were glazing over, the stress of the day had taken its toll and he felt the whiskey hitting him, not to mention that the glasses he poured were nearly filled to the brim, and he was already more than half the bottle in. The desperate need for a drunken euphoria kept pressing at his mind and he was lost in thought when he heard Daisy's voice. "I'll be having that gun back Booker DeWitt."

"There is no way in hell that i'm leaving this bar without a gun Fitzroy!" he yelled back with a drunken slur. Instantly a pistol was slid across bar counter towards him. Nearly on instinct he picked it up, weighed it, checked the magazine and chambered a bullet. Stuffing it behind his belt he sent Daisy's gun back towards her and poured a fourth glass.

Once he'd finished it he found most of the people at the bar staring at him. "What?"

"Well… your technique with firearms is… incredible, sir, to say the least." Answered Jacoby meekly.

"Had alot of practice."

Daisy seemed to take new interest in him, walking over, "How much is that, Mr. DeWitt? Any man who can handle a firearm with that kind of grace a bottle in must have some skeletons in his closet."

He poured the last of the whiskey into his glass, averting Fitzroy's gaze, "I've got enough. More than you or your red-wearing monkeys."

"You know, Mr. DeWitt, I was debating if I should let you leave this bar alive or not, but it seems you might of use to our cause after all."

"What do I need from you now that I know where the girl is?"

"You've seen the defences around that tower, the soldiers and cannons, what you haven't seen is the zealots."

"Let me guess, the black robed demon-bastards?" He said with a scoff.

Daisy seemed visibly taken aback, "You saw one, and you're alive?"

"I guess i'm lucky. Now what the hell are those things."

"Genetically manipulated members of the Order of the Raven, a religious sect."

"Manipulated?"

"_Changed_, DeWitt, by Fink and Marlowe. We take out Fink and he can't make more of them, the soldiers aren't nearly as deadly as those things."

DeWitt nodded, understanding. Then pointed at a bottle of whiskey on the top shelf. "Then go kill him, he's not my problem."

"He is if you want to reach Comstock's daughter."

"I'll find a way, Fitzroy. I'm not killing myself over some business mogul, we've got enough of those in New York."

She laughed, "alright, I'll handle Fink, think you can kill a lowly politician?"

DeWitt thought of politics, of the bastards in suits who'd sent him to war, who'd made him kill so many. "Yeah." he nodded. "Tomorrow."

"Lock and load boys, let's go kill Fink." She yelled out, the revolutionaries all cheered and followed her out the door. leaving Jacoby and a drunk Booker alone, a second bottle standing between them, and Jacoby visibly nervous.

"Grab a glass, lets toast to a flying fucking city."


	6. Chapter 6

DeWitt woke up with a headsplitting hangover, he'd passed out in a corner booth at the end of the night. On the table beside him stood the bottle of whiskey, nearly empty, he reached for it and finished it off, hoping to appease the hangover somewhat. Sitting up he groaned. And was surprised to find Jacoby neatly curled up on the other side of the booth, still asleep. The memories of last night flooded back, whiskey had never made him forget anything, not anything of import at least… not permanently, and he knew that today he had a politician to kill.

Politicians. DeWitt hated politics with a passion, he hated most everything, and everyone, especially himself, since Wounded Knee. What right did flakes in suits have to decide who lived or died? Whose sons went off to war, whose wives became widows? No, a politician he'd kill gladly, especially if it got him closer to his goal.

Booker went behind the bar counter, pouring himself another glass of whiskey and washing it down with ice water. He slammed his fist on the counter. "Up you lazy filth!" He yelled, much in the same way his drill sergeant had in the past, a smile playing across his lips as he watched Jacoby spring up to attention with in panic, yelling out "I'm innocent!"

When the elderly barkeeper's booze and sleep-addled brain finally started to function he stared at DeWitt with a passionate hatred, before adjusting his bowtie and clearing his throat. "That wasn't funny Mr. DeWitt. Not at all."

"Shut up Ernest. Pour me an Irish coffee."

The man walked around the bar and whisked Booker to the customer side, busying himself with two glasses, the morning hadn't been kind to him either. Placing a glass in front of DeWitt he took the second and swallowed a hefty swig, his face going red instantly as he gasped, the piping hot beverage burning his tongue.

DeWitt still sat smiling as he blew on his own coffee, he was used to hangovers. "Who do I have to kill, Ernest?"

"Shush! Not so damn loud, what if there are patrons outside, or worse?"

"Ernest."

"Yes, yes. I don't much care for all this clandestine business i'll have you know, assassinations and the like. Here in my bar… bad for one's repu-"

"Jacoby!"

"Calm down sir. I'll have you know you drank 16 dollars worth of my finest whiskey yesterday. In any case Ms. Fitzroy left instructions." he muttered, pulling a rolled up parchment from behind the bar. It was a map of Columbia, marking the various districts in painstaking detail, obviously drawn up by a professional mapmaker. Scrawled in the top right corner were instructions; names, times, locations, escape routes, altitudes…

"Thomas Marlowe, elderly fellow, unlike myself," puffed Jacoby, "he patented the murder of crows vigor. Nasty business, but quite profitable I hear. He'll be at Soldier's Field this evening presenting the vigor, most people don't know much about vigors see, but he wants to change that I think. Damned foolish if you ask me, can't end we-"

"What are vigors, Jacoby?"

"Didn't I mention them last night? Ah well, see, they change a man, mutation, it's called. Though Marlowe calls it evolution. Anyway, they're dangerous they are, from what _I_ hear taken in moderation they can be useful, but abusing them…" he shudders, "well you've seen the zealots yourself, haven't you?"

DeWitt nodded, sipping on his coffee. He never did like coffee too much but the task ahead demanded at least moderate sobriety. He checked his watch, 14:38.

"What time should I expect Marlowe?"

"According to the instructions he'll be there at 17:00 to start his presentation. Ms. Fitzroy left notice that 2 of her men will be standing by to help you… and make sure you get the job done."

"Watchdogs. Just what I fucking need. How do I get there?"

"Ah Mr. DeWitt that's the best part… you skyline."

"I what?"

Jacoby withdrew a ring of keys and went through them, picking out a new, polished steel key, obviously for a recently installed lock, one he didn't want picked under any circumstance. Opening a cupboard below the bar he withdrew a curious metallic glove, with what looked like a rotating hook on the end of it.

"You skyline Mr. DeWitt, back when the Vox Populi first picked up, they got their hands on a shipment of these, they're called Sky-Hooks sir, I think i'll go into the business of selling them one day. Fancy that, Ernest Jacoby; Sky-hook salesmen. Seeing as they're only available to the military today, I should think I'll have a monopoly on them!"

"Great." Booker picked up the contraption, and fit his left arm into it, strapping the bindings onto his forearm. It wasn't heavy, surprisingly, but it seemed solid. He turned his arm away from the bar and squeezed the trigger. The rotor span to life, spinning viciously.

He remembered what he'd seen upon his arrival in Columbia, the shot-gun wielding cops escorting freight crate along what he could now-assume was a skyline. This was going to be interesting.

"Now Sir, not in my bar, I hear they're dangerous contraptions. I'd rather you didn't play with it. And besides you have to memorize your route, maps aren't allowed to leave my establishment. Ms. Fitzroy's rules."

Booker went to looking over the map, studying Columbia's streets, side-streets and alleys. Committing every major boulevard to mind, and making a point of memorizing all the routes to and from Monument Island.

"M-mister DeWitt… I really must ask, do you… plan on paying for last night's whiskey? It really was some very expensive stuff…"

DeWitt glanced up from the map, his concentrated look somewhat menacing. Though after seeing how the man wielded a firearm, everything about DeWitt was menacing. DeWitt got up and went back to the booth, where his vest still lay on the couch. Removing every coin from it's pockets, as well as the pockets in his pants he carried them over to the bar counter.

"What say you be my personal banker, Mr. Jacoby, and once I'm done with my… errands, here in Columbia, you get to keep half of whatever's left. I die and it's all yours."

Jacoby didn't say anything, he simply stared at the pile of money wide eyed, wondering how DeWitt had hidden had tucked it all away so that it didn't bulge, or clink or… anything!

"Jacoby!"

"I… yes sir. Yes that sounds like a wonderful business venture. Might I ask how much is here?"

"Roughly 250, I spent a fair amount yesterday."

The greedy old man couldn't help but nod jovially. "Very good, i'll put it in the safe."

"Good. And don't you touch a coin of it until all accounts are settled, as for the liquor… pour me a glass of whiskey and start me tab." DeWitt said, as he settled in to go over the map again, and plan potential exit strategies.


	7. Chapter 7

DeWitt had climbed to a rooftop of a residential building situated near the island's edge, with a skyline running over it.. He'd made a point of taking side-streets so that the damned contraption strapped to his arm didn't draw attention and was running behind schedule. It was already nearing 5 and he had to meet Fitzroy's fucking lapdogs before he did his job.

He lit up a cigarette, taking the time to smell it, and puff on it slowly, as he had in the pilgrim shuttle, knowing that if something went wrong he'd have a long flight to his death. The familiar taste of Old Gold tobacco didn't disappoint, sending a nicotine rush to his brain from the depth of his inhalations. It was time to go.

Booker stamped out the smoke and stared at the skyline, it was about 8 feet above him but Jacoby had assured him it wouldn't be a problem. Feeling the fool he aimed his 'sky-hook' at the line… and pressed the trigger.

Instantly he was pulled up through the air until the hook found purchase on the bronzed rail, a pained grunt escaping his lips when the hooks locked on. His arm ached something fierce, and he made a mental note that this was best done with inertia. Still he was flying, or as close as a man can get to flying. The speed felt incredible, the air felt sharp, cutting his skin as he sped forward.

DeWitt expected fear, but an utter euphoria washed over him! He felt reborn, adrenaline and excitement coursing through him as he was dragged along the skyline! Behind him the welcome center district was growing farther away, and above him loomed Soldier's Field. By some gravity-defying miracle he was climbing, being pulled along faster than he'd imagined possible! He turned his head right and around him the whole of Columbia stretched out, Finkton, Emporia, The smoke of the factories and the green of the parks and… the massive statue at it's center. Beautiful, elegant… and his target. Grim reality set back in as he neared soldier's field. It's tower's growing closer. He knew where to get off the skyline, and that's where a terrifying thought hit him… How did he stop?

He needed to land on a rooftop, he hadn't considered where to stop if he missed it. The skyline passed the outskirts of the floating island and the building loomed ahead. DeWitt could think of only one solution. To let go of the sky-hooks trigger.

Just as he reached the building's rooftop he swore loudly and let go, he felt himself slow down, but not nearly fast enough, his speed still excessive, and flew off the skyhook with terrifying inertia pushing him along.

He hit the ground running. Then after a few steps tripped and toppled over, sliding along the rough surface of the rooftop, tearing his sleeve to shreds, and the skin underneath it. Gritting his teeth he got up, holding his shoulder. His arm felt paralyzed, and he wondered if it was broken, the pain was certainly intense. The sky-lines would take some practise to master.

Knowing that he couldn't miss his chance he gathered his bearings, a quick glance from the rooftop proved that the map he'd studied was accurate, he quickly found a stairwell from the rooftop and made good time to street level, averting the surprised eyes of passerby's at his bloodied persona.

Bookers sense of direction had always been good, and within minutes he was at the meeting point. Two men stood there waiting. One was a tall, muscular black male, his shoulders broad and biceps bulging, head shaved bald, a red shirt stretched across his massive chest. He eyed up DeWitt with a look of distaste in his eyes, but said nothing.

The second fellow, a red-haired irishman came up with an extended hand, which DeWitt shook respectfully. He had a friendly enough look about him, though he was a bit wild-eyed, a spark of lunacy hidden somewhere within him. A red goatee was growing on his chin and where his left hand ought have been was nothing but a grizzled and bandaged stump. Blood seeping through the dirty cloth.

"You DeWitt?"

Booker simply nodded.

"Call me Irish, everyone does anyway. What'd you have to run from the cops?" the man asked, gesturing to DeWitt's bloodied arm.

"Sky-hook."

"Hah! First-timer eh? Happened to me to, trick is to let go of the trigger gently, slows you down somewhat! Anyway mate, you're late. Marlow's be done soon so you oughta hurry."

DeWitt nodded again. "Got anything better than a pistol for me?"

The irishman laughed again, "Aye, got this 'ere beauty. Tor, pass it 'ere!"

The black man grunted with displeasure but obeyed the order, handing the man a cloth-wrapped bundle. The massive man held it with one hand, but Irish, and DeWitt for that matter, both needed two. Irish unwrapped it gently, under the cloth was what looked like a portable cannon. A massive coned tip was soldered onto the end, and the entire thing looked to be held together with red cloth.

"S'called a heater. It ain't pretty, but it puts a hole the size of o' a cannonball in just about anythin'!"

He handed the heater to DeWitt, who took it with his right hand, unlike his pistol, this gun would be impossible to conceal. He debated not taking but, but decided to keep it for now.

"Look now, there' ain't no point in us sticking around, Tor 'ere might be a killer but I sure as shite ain't. We'll be on a rooftop watching, so don't get any ideas. I'm more 'fraid of Fitzroy than o' you. Meaning no offence o'course Mr. DeWitt."

DeWitt nodded, seemed Fitzroy's name pulled more weight than he'd thought.

"How many of you Vox are there anyway?"

Irish laughed again, "you wanna get a feel for that swing by Shantytown, you'll see all ya need tah."

"Right… Hey Irish, what made you turn revolutionary anyway?"

"Me? Hah! I ain't got nothing to lose no more!" His voice went borderline erratic, "Me boys got killed in an accident at Fink's yesterday, same time I lost me hand!" He screamed, waving the bloodied stump around. "Me youngest's missin! Hahah! Missin' he is!" The irishman's eyes went wide, "Who'd want to harm a shoeshine boy eh DeWitt? Who'd want that? What'd he do to anyone? Anyone! Kill em all I say! Slice their throats all bloody! Hah!"

It was like a blow to the gut. DeWitt's eyes got wet, his stomach twisted into knots. He watched as 'Tor' stepped in to take hold of his comrade and drag him away. "Get it done." those were the only words the man offered.

DeWitt turned and walked away, shaking slightly as he thought about the incident last night, with the child and the police officer…

Booker DeWitt had forced himself to swallow his feelings of regret, push them out mind. He knew that whatever he felt was paltry in comparison to Irish's grief. From a rooftop he observed the scene, it was well past 5 now and the target would be gone soon. He'd missed the presentation now there was a crowd of people lined up to buy the 'vigor'. T. Marlowe stood in the center, watching as a rancher watched cattle. Beside him stood two bodyguards, they seemed small compared to Tor, but they both outweighed DeWitt by at least 30 kilos, if not more. He knew there was no chance he'd get close enough, and neither of his weapons were suited for distance shooting. Debating his approach he realised Fitzroy must have failed in killing Fink, that sort of news would have spread through Columbia like wildfire, and that it hadn't been publicized, or Marlowe's guard would be much heavier. He realised the duality of the plan, not only would it have lessened the defences around the monument, but the political impact of two major figures' deaths would have been massive… and if Booker failed then Fitzroy wouldn't lose one of her men. He debated calling it all off, simply going back and refusing given that she'd failed on her end. But he knew he still needed her, much more than she needed him.

Then he saw it, right above the stage ran a skyline. It would be easy to access, he wouldn't even have to let go of it, he could kill the man and keep flying. After all it couldn't be harder than shooting from horseback. In a split second he'd leapt forward and squeezed the skyhook's trigger, connecting with the skyline and zooming towards his soon-to-be victim.

Booker's approach didn't go unnoticed, he heard a scream and panic ensued; the crowd ran in every which direction, away from the stage. The only men who seemed at a loss were the bodyguards and Marlowe, staring at Booker unmoving. They were deer caught in headlights.

He lessened the pressure on the sky-hook's trigger, slowing down slightly, raising his arm he lined up his shot. Finger on the trigger… exhale… twist!

The skyline had turned, and Booker hadn't counted on his body's movement from the inertia, his shot went just wide, the lead shot tearing into a bodyguard and letting loose a cloud of blood. The second bodyguard sprung into action and pushed Marlowe to the floor, covering the man with his body.

Booker let go and flew off the skyhook, landing into a roll and popping up properly this time. He pressed the trigger again but the chamber was empty. Irish hadn't mentioned that the damned cannon only chambered a single shot! He dropped it and pulled out his pistol.

Not hearing a second volley the bodyguard got up and ran at Booker, but his charge had been left unprotected. Booker's hand was already trained on Marlowe, he squeezed the trigger, and watched the balding man's head jerk, blood splattering his clothes as he went limp.

Then the bodyguard tackled him. It was like being hit by a train, the behemoth of a man took Booker to the ground, the gun flying from DeWitt's hand. Booker gasped for air and raised a hand to protect himself from the oncoming punch. His left was numb from the using the skyhook so he could only block with his right. Soon the bodyguard's hands wrapped around his throat, cutting off air. Booker could feel his trachea being crushed by the thick fingers, his own hand grabbing at the man's wrist but failing to do anything useful.

A blackness crept around the egdes of DeWitt's vision, and he could feel his face burning from loss of blood flow. his legs kicked the air and he struggled.

He raised his left arm and hit the man with the skyhook, but the bodyguard seemed not to feel it. In a final desperate attempt he shoved the hook into the man's face… and pressed the trigger.

The rotors came to life, the sharp hooks spinning, digging into the man's skin, fracturing the skull, going through the eye socket! The bodyguard screamed in agony and let go, but Booker kept the trigger pressed down, it dug through the bodyguard's face and cracked through the man's skull, the hooks working like shovels, sending the inside's of the man's head flying, splattering all over DeWitt. Brain matter, shredded skin, bone fragments and blood all covered DeWitt when he finally released the trigger, still gasping for air.

He pushed himself out from under the mangled and collapsed corpse of the bodyguard and started to run.

His lungs burned for air but he didn't stop, sprinting off stage and into a nearby alleyway,subconsciously following one of many escape routes he'd imprinted into his mind. He passed one building, two, three, he tore off his bloodied vest and shirt and threw them to the ground, chest heaving. Finally he rounded a new corner and leant against a wall, he couldn't stop himself. With a grunt he threw up. Retching all over the dirty floor of the garbage alley. All the memories he'd repressed in his life came flooding back, everything he'd tried to suppress with alcohol flew to the forefront. The scalpings, the executions, shooting and slaughtering innocents, burning tents and hearing the screams from within them! He threw up until there wasn't even stomach acid left inside him and he was simply retching and trying for air.

Taking a couple more steps he collapsed to the floor, back to the wall, wiping blood and more off his face with his forearm. Looking around he saw a little alcove. He'd hide there until it was dark. He'd sleep.

Dreams brought Booker DeWitt no respite. The white injun was all he saw as he slept.


	8. Chapter 8

_I'm on horseback. To either side of me are upwards of four hundred cavalrymen; we stand rank and file, sabres hanging from our belts, pistols holstered, muskets in hand. From the sky you would see the shined golden buttons on our uniforms, glinting in the morning sun. It was to be a dawn attack, command theorized that the red men would be least prepared during the early morning hours. _

_They are camped in a low valley, and behind the ridges we hide, waiting for the artillery to be rolled into place. There is an air of restlessness among us, I can feel my comrades thirsting for combat, and i'm no different from them, it's time to get rid of these godforsaken savages once and for all._

_The hotchkiss guns finally got rolled into place. We'd intercepted and executed the native scouts earlier in the night; we are ready._

_The whistle is blown. _

_I charge._

_A bloodthirsty grin spread across my face as the savages emerge from their tents, the butt of my rifle is up against my shoulder, my legs tensed to raise myself from the saddle, allowing for a more accurate shot at speed. Closer! Closer! Where's my fucking order? Why can't I fucking shoot? _

_I can't wait anymore, I let loose, beside me thunderstorm erupts, a volley of fire and smoke, lead shot slashing through flesh and hide, riddling the tents, riddling the fucking animals! My target's head jerks and he goes down in a mist of blood._

_As planned, half the regiment splits off to the side, allowing us to surround the savages camp. I hear the repetitive fire of the hotchkiss guns, glancing back as I reload I see the cloud of smoke on the hill where the guns are stationed, a white cloud enveloping them, the smoke parting only for more and more bullets. _

_I reload and let loose a second volley, the captains have stopped commanding, emptying their revolvers into the fray. Hundreds of natives run from their tents, men with holes in them; women, children, screaming and crying, covered in blood, guts, skin torn and perforated._

_Another long haired savage runs from me, I shoot, the bullet takes him square in the back… a bundle flies from her hands… a child, a babe. As it flies time slows around me. I shot a mother, her child drops to the ground, it's fragile bones shattering._

_The guns have stopped. We dismount._

_I stalk through the encampment, slowly, mortified, staring at the two silent corpses. My rifle slips from my hands, falling to the ground._

_Around me my fellow soldiers charge into the camp, guns still firing, finishing the survivors, executing them. I see my captain lighting a teepee on fire beside me, screams emanating from the burning mass. All the tents burn. None are empty._

_I reach the woman, her back is splattered in blood, the child a bloody mess a few feet away. It's limbs bent at strange angles…_

_Slowly I kneel beside her, touching her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her bare skin. In an instant she turns, shoving a blade into my thigh._

_I grunt, grabbing her wrist before she can shove it all the way in. Twisting her wrist I hear a snap, her wrist breaks, she lets go and I grab the handle, screaming in pain as I pull the jagged stone blade out of my own flesh._

_I grab the bitch's hair, pulling her up, furious, filled with rage, dragging her already broken body to it's knees. My captain stands in front of me with an insane smile; "Finish the cunt! Kill the fucking savage!"_

_The men have gotten closer, and the knife is at her neck. They're all wild eyed, cheering! Yelling! Egging me on, I press the sharpened stone to her throat as she screams, the blade digging in, cutting her._

"_You fucking Indian lover! DeWitt you fucking Indian whore! You can't kill a savage? You fucking like these animals? You one of them?"_

_I stare my captain in the eye… my vision red, burning with the utmost hatred; for him, for the savages, for the world itself._

_Without a word I take the serrated edge to her forehead and slice in, staring at my commander the entire time. I saw through the skin, along the skull, jerking the flesh free of bone as I do, sinking the blade deeper, blood spurts onto my arms, my hands covered in red liquid. I keep sawing further in, not looking at her, hearing the bitch's screams piercing my ears, hating her all the more for it. I cut deeper! Deeper! Faster! All the way through! A sharp tug! Her scalp comes free with a final scream of agonized pain._

_Silence._

_My men stare at me, the captain stares silently, his revolver shaking in his hands._

_He raises his gun in the air… HUZZAH! _

_The regiment follows suit! HUZZAH! _

_BLOOD OF SAVAGES! BLOOD FOR FREEDOM! _

_The captains comes up to me, kicking the corpse at my feet. Grabbing me by the shoulder he hoists me to my feet, "THE WHITE INJUN!" _

_I go to work on the next one, my blade grows more and more dull with each man, woman, and child who I take it too. All I hear is screaming._


	9. Chapter 9

DeWitt awoke with a scream, feeling a hand pulling him awake, instantly he turned and grabbed at his assailants throat, but couldn't reach, his arm was too short.

His eyes were already wide. The same nightmare, the past, what he'd done, what he'd been trying to forget ever since. The liquor could not suppress it properly anymore, he couldn't get drunk enough. It was why he never blacked out from drinking. He could never forget, never escape his sins.

Finally his vision focused, the faces, the hairless, skinless… scalped heads leaving his mind's eye. There was no one, he'd woken himself. His arm was still frozen in the air, fingers in a death grip around nothingness, eyes shining with tears of remorse and self-loathing. He'd never allowed himself to cry over what he'd done, to cry would be to pity, and Booker knew he deserved no pity, not from anyone, least of all himself.

Groaning, sore all over, he managed to drag himself to his feet, it was night time, there was no sunlight to judge the time by, and booker could see no moon and stars, a fog enveloped Columbia tonight. A cold freezing fog.

He remembered tearing off his shirt and vest, and found himself shivering, covered in cold sweat; the sun that heated the city so well in the day was gone, it was freezing, and DeWitt quickly went from shivering to shaking, hugging himself as he started to walk. He realised that he was still wearing the skyhook only when he felt its ice-cold metal against his own skin, glancing at it he saw that there was still blood, and even skin hanging from it. The knife he'd used was no different, never cleaned, never sharpened, until the day he burned it, heaping wood onto the fire until the stone blade had cracked beyond recognition from the heat. He wanted to throw out the machine strapped to his arm, but knew he couldn't, he needed it to get back to Jacoby's, to warmth, to whiskey. Tonight he would drink enough to forget, he'd drink until darkness of either death of oblivion took him.

He reached the skyline he'd arrived on, unable to jump he simply squeezed the trigger, no longer feeling pain, numbness had prevailed. The only thing that registered on his body was the cold air cutting his skin. He didn't care.

Booker DeWitt finally arrived at the bar, stumbling through alleyways and streets he reached the door, entering through it.

He was greeted with a roaring cheer, red banners adorned the walls of the bar, instantly two Vox soldiers grabbed him and dragged him in, DeWitt looked nothing short of bewildered, shaking from the cold, he found a warm cloak thrown onto his shoulders, as he was lead through the joyful crowd to the bar counter, where Daisy Fitzroy stood with a smile.

"You succeeded DeWitt."

The pain of cheering soldiers reminded him of his past, he could not tolerate it, hatred burned in his green eyes as he stared at Fitzroy, what he'd just done shouldn't be celebrated, it should be condemned. It would seem that like an animal, DeWitt was doomed to repeat his mistakes, to repeat his failures over and over.

"I killed a man, so fucking what?" he seethed.

"You did you job, _Mr._ DeWitt, and the results were exactly as we'd hoped."

"You didn't kill Fink."

"Doesn't matter." She said with a smile, he noticed she didn't have a drink in her hand, the warmth was sharpening his mind, bringing him back to functionality "Fink pulled all the Zealots back to Finkton, to protect his precious foundries."

He grunted. "Whiskey, Jacoby. A bottle. Now!" DeWitt slammed his fist down on the table, a sudden silence fell over the bar. He turned to Daisy; "Tomorrow Fitzroy, we take the tower. I find the girl. And I leave. I'm not your fucking errand boy, and i'm sure as fucking hell not your assassin."

The woman's face went from a jovial smile to that of a grizzled military leader, "Not yet."

Booker finished his glass and placed it down gently; "Tomorrow. Or I go alone."

"Coward."

Booker turned his head to face her, his hand wrapped around the whiskey glass, applying pressure, testing the glass. The cloak fell from his shoulders and he sat bare-chested, his bloodied trousers, wet from the fog, dripping red to the ground below.

"You heard me DeWitt, you're a coward, you abandon this cause the same way you abandoned the poor child yesterday. He's dead now," She seethed, "shot in the back when he tried to run. Like a savage animal."

The glass cracked in his hand, broken shards cutting his skin, digging into his flesh. DeWitt's expression remained unchanged, a mask on unadulterated hatred. "Tomorrow."

He grabbed the bottle and stalked off into the bar's back room, he did not hear the party again as he drank his bottle and drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

The next morning DeWitt found a loose fitting shirt and donned it, covering himself, restrapping the skyhook to his arm. He exited the room to an empty bar, it was clean though, the polished wood shining to faint rays of sunlight, the floor was swept and washed, all the chairs arranged and not a single dirty glass anywhere in sight. He debated his course of action, and wondered, briefly, where Ernest Jacoby had disappeared to.

He went behind the counter and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He felt strange, taking such liberties in another man's establishment, but at the same time he also felt at home. And he had no doubt in his mind that he was more concerned for Jacoby's well being than Daisy Fitzroy or her Vox Populi.

"You talk. Scream… In your sleep."

DeWitt turned his head, his hand reaching for a knife that was behind the bar counter, used for cutting lemons. In a corner booth sat Tor, the seat and table were undoubtedly far too small for his hulking frame, but he seemed comfortable.

"I'm sorry." He realised he couldn't remember that last time he had apologized for something. Anything.

The man nodded, but sat in silence, his gaze focused on Booker, waiting for the next word.

"I have my reasons."

"Wounded Knee."

The veteran was taken aback, how did he know? He'd never mentioned it to a soul.

"You mumbled it relentlessly in your sleep… _DeWitt_"

DeWitt nodded slowly, not remembering his dream tonight, his nightmare, but by the cold sweat on the back of his neck he knew he'd had it. He always did. "Forget about it." he said, his tone serious.

"I was there."

"You… couldn't have been. There were no negroes in our ranks." His rage swelled, "Don't fucking lie about things you know nothing about!"

"I. was. there." responded the man calmly.

"You couldn't have been!"

DeWitt felt ashamed, his anger subsided from looking at the man's calm demeanour. He filled his glass of whiskey to the top. "…want one?"

The black man nodded.

Booker brought a second glass over, as grasped it, the cuts on his hand from last night started to bleed, staining the clear glass red. His voice dropped almost to a whisper; "you weren't… you can't have been."

Tor sat silently, bringing the glass of whiskey to his lips.

"Tell me."

The man nodded, putting the whiskey down, he shut his eyes and took a deep, audible breath. "My name was Torrence then, I lived in Manderson. I was among those who were sent to clean up your… carnage."

Booker's bent his head down, staring at the amber liquid, silent.

"You were a hero. The _White Injun_. I've seen your victims DeWitt. I've seen your… trophies."

Booker couldn't look up, he couldn't face this man, he understood the disdain Torrence exuded when he'd first laid eyes on him. Shame rose in his throat, making it hard to swallow. On impulse he washed it back down with whiskey. His ears rang, making Torrence's voice barely audible.

"I don't know what pushed you to do what you did DeWitt. But you don't deserve… _this._" said the man calmly.

DeWitt raised his head, to find that Torrence had been staring at him the entire time. He matched the man's gaze. A silver cross hung around the man's massive neck, tiny in comparison to the rest of him.

"How can you say that? You know what I've done… you've seen it. All of it… the women," his voice cracked, "the… children."

"I don't know what pushed you to do what you did," repeated the man calmly. "But I do know that you've hated yourself ever since." Torrence took another deep breath, he wasn't a man of many words, and when he spoke it was as if the words took all the breath out of him.

"No man, is beyond redemption. Stop looking for death, DeWitt, find a reason to live, Fitzroy found one. Her deluded cause, her passion. Find your own."

DeWitt stared at his companion, and reached for his chest, wishing desperately he had a cross hanging there to latch onto.

"Religion won't help you Booker DeWitt, you are not a man of god, and you never will be. Yours will be a different path to redemption, if you have the courage to pursue it."

Booker's fist shook as he clutched it to his chest, slowly he spoke; "Fitzroy's going to kill me, isn't she?"

"Only if death at her hands is your fate… but she will try." answered the man, with a slow nod of his head. He hadn't blinked once since the start of the conversation.

DeWitt simply closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. "Torrence… what happened to Irish?"

The man took another deep breath. "His wife ended her own life," he said slowly, "I… put him out of his misery."

DeWitt stifled a sob, feeling the utmost shame, he'd killed a family. Again he'd taken, taken away, taken a man's son. He could have saved him, he could have walked away from Wounded Knee… If repentance… redemption, was in his future, he would have a long road ahead.

"Thank you Torrence. I… hope you're right."


	10. Chapter 10

Booker DeWitt left promptly, he'd stopped to find some fitting clothes and took with him a small sum of money. The whiskey he'd drank warmed him despite the cold wind that morning. But he still walked with his head down, trying to process all that he'd heard; reflecting on everything he'd done since coming to Columbia. He had to find a way to get to that tower, he knew that much. Clearing his head he forced himself to focus on the task ahead.

DeWitt had followed a path through the side-streets, to avoid drawing attention to himself, he realised how quickly recent events had transpired and doubted anyone could, or would, recognize him, but he wasn't one to take risks right now.

The alleyways of Columbia weren't like those of America's industrial cities, they were tight, European. The paths were mostly brick or cobblestone, plants hung down from the buildings which rose high above the ground he was walking on. DeWitt wasn't the only person who'd decided that walking the main streets wasn't prudent it seemed, the alleyways weren't empty, people scurried about around him, most of them on their way to work. Booker took a brisk pace, moving quickly, he passed gents and ladies that looked like they belong to high society, walking head down, visibly nervous.

DeWitt made a point of not looking anyone in the eyes, keeping his head down as well, when a man asked him for the time he simply kept walking, slowing only to unclip the chain from his pocketwatch and hide it all together. Walking in this position proved to be a dangerous risk, as he was perilously close to a police checkpoint when he looked up; the city was locking down.

He calculated his options quickly and identified the one that would look the least suspicious, even if it was a bit of a gamble; turning before he reached the checkpoint he walked up to a door and in one fluid motion grabbed the handle, hitched it upwards and forced a turn, the mechanism snapped cleanly, rather quietly as well. Breaking in this way was a trick he'd learned from his days as a Pinkerton, and had saved him on more than one occasion, unfortunately it didn't work with the newer doors, aside from that it also had the drawback of jamming the mechanism, keeping the door from shutting now that he was inside. He kept it shut with his foot and stopped to take in his surroundings. He'd entered through service entrance of what looked to be a rather upscale apartment house, luckily devoid of any activity.

Waiting briefly, to make sure anyone who'd seen him come in had moved away he let the door creak slowly open and went for the nearest staircase, climbing the flights two steps at a time. Once he'd reached the third floor he stopped to listen for pursuers, but heard nothing. More calmly now, catching his breath, Booker kept going, hoping to reach the roof.

No such luck.

At the fifth floor the staircase stopped, Booker stood facing a rather large oak door with a golden "5" on it. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement on the other side, satisfied that there was no one he then once again pried the door open, the lock snapping from the pressure.

Stepping over the threshold DeWitt found himself not in a hallway lined with doors, but inside an apartment, large and impressively decorated. He froze for a second, expecting to hear a housewife or a maid screaming, or a gruff voice asking him what his business was, but the place seemed empty. He tiptoed through the apartment, admiring the lavish furnishings, gold trimmed velvet curtains and polished hardwood floor. He passed into the kitchen, checking for traces of life, making sure nothing was cooking, or left out, as that would signify someone was either here or coming back. He tread lightly, checking around corners.

Booker reached the bedrooms, the first was a childs, a young girls from the look of it, the walls had pink wallpaper, the sort with off-white pinstripes and cute little designs of flowers along the skirting board. The bed was small, and atop the duvet lay an old faded yellow blanket, no doubt the child's favorite. A closet was half open, clothes neatly hung up, and sitting on what was likely a toy chest sat a doll in a bright pink dress. DeWitt stared through the doorway at the room, why did a little girl's room seem so familiar to him? He vision got foggy and his head started to pound, as if the deja vu was giving him physical symptoms now. He turned away, gritting his teeth, and as quickly as the pain had come it'd subsided. A cold sweat lingering on Bookers brow. The next door over was a washroom, he walked in and turned the tap, washing his face with cold water. The water came away with a red tinge, glancing up into the mirror he was surprised to see his nose was bleeding. Booker washed again and took a handkerchief from the washroom, pressing it to his nose.

Finally he went to the last room, the parents room. It was no less lavish than the rest of the house, the people who lived here obviously had money; Booker stared at the bed itself longingly, he couldn't recall the last time he'd slept in comfortable quarters. Not the dingy backroom of the pub, not his home before that, a bottle-strewn apartment with a mattress on the floor and sink full of dishes. Casting the thoughts from his head Booker went over to the window, glancing out at the street below; police presence had intensified, there was a couple of roadblocks set up between his location and the bridge to Monument island. Everyone kept their head down as they walked the streets, it seemed the police in Columbia instilled fear in everyone, not just the lower-class.

DeWitt considered his options, he needed time to think, and there was no time like the present. Brazenly he lit us a cigarette, standing, relaxed, by the window.

"Sally! Go to your room, now! I'll not having you embarrassing your mother and I again!"

DeWitt flicked away the cigarette, suddenly focused; "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." He muttered, the owners of the house had just come home. DeWitt glanced at the wardrobe in the room, he wouldn't fit. He looked out the window but there was nothing, no ladder, no fire escape, not so much as a vine to hang onto. The only thing that seemed to be an option was a hook on a building on the opposite side of the street, it looked to be made from the same material as the skylines. Booker considered his options as footsteps approached the room, the hook was too far to jump for, if it wasn't magnetic he'd be jumping from the 5th floor, likely to his death. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, certain he could beat the husband into submission without breaking a sweat.

No, i'm done hurting innocent people, he thought. Stepping onto the windowsill he leapt off, reaching out, holding the trigger, praying it would work.

Booker groaned audibly when the now-familiar feeling of his arm being pulled from its socket coursed through his nerve endings. The skyhook had latched on, he released the trigger and landed deftly onto a balcony beneath him, the door was shut and the curtains drawn so he wasn't too worried about being discovered, he only hoped no pedestrians below had seen his figure zooming from building to building.

Booker leaned against the balcony railing, glancing over at the room he'd just left, the husband and wife were there now, a man of about Bookers age, tall but thin, with black hair neatly laid back. He could hear him yelling from here, it was perhaps fortunate that the man was angry, or he would undoubtedly have noticed that the door wasn't locked.

Booker stared intently, unable to draw his eyes away from the scene. The man stopped yelling and turned away; his wife, a girl of maybe 20 stood beside him, head down, fingers fumbling nervously with her purse. In one brief, swift motion the husband span around again and backhanded the girl, hard enough that she fell onto the bed and out of DeWitt's view.

Booker felt sick to the stomach, tempted to go back to that apartment and beat the man senseless. He'd made a vow since his military days, never to hurt another woman or child. Already he'd broken it inadvertently, when he didn't help the shoeshine Irish's son. He looked around for a hook on the building across from him, sorely tempted to go back, but even after he'd seen one he forced himself to turn away, knowing that it wasn't his place to interfere in something as common as a man hitting his wife, even if it did infuriate him. Booker had to be calculating now, careful.

He debated going through the balcony door, but decided that the risk was too great, he wouldn't hear anyone on the other side with the noise of the street. Considering his options he looked at the hook he'd jumped to - within second he was balancing on the balcony railing, he jumped up and grabbed the hook with his hands, pulling himself up he maneuvered his body, got his legs up, then pushed himself further up, until he'd grabbed roofs edge and scrambled up quickly.

Moving away from the edge DeWitt noticed, surprised at himself, that none of the buildings had gutters, in New York he'd have ended up grabbing a one, possibly breaking it off and falling had he attempted the same stunt. It made sense, he thought, as there were no trees taller than buildings in Columbia.

He stood on the roof, staring at the looming monument, it seemed close, but like with anything massive, distances relative to it are understated. He knew he still had a long way to go before reaching the statue, but at least he'd finally reached the relative safety of the rooftops. Booker walked at a steady pace; jumping the small gaps between roofs was easy, but he knew he'd have to find a skyline to reach the statue itself.


	11. Chapter 11

His trip through Columbia went unhindered, a couple of times he'd been forced to duck out of sight, take a small detour, but he'd reached a skyline and managed to get to Monument Island without an army of policemen chasing after him.

Now it was late evening as he stood behind the black iron gates. Soldiers were patrolling the grounds around the statue, there were men in casual dress milling about between them, some carried clipboards, others stacks of files and papers. He wondered what would demand such heavy military protection, and a civilian workforce… what was this girl capable of? He inched closer to the wall, trying to figure out how he'd get through the courtyard into the effigy itself. This would not be easy.

DeWitt pulled his gun from his vest, whatever his morals, he'd shoot anyone who shot at him. He waited for an opportune moment then scrambled over the fence, gingerly maneuvering over the point-tipped top, praying silently no one would see him.

Dropping down he immediately crouched behind the closest piece of cover he could find, in this case a shipping crate. There was enough space for him to walk between the crate and the wall, keeping hidden, but how to get from here to the entrance, past the guards and patrols was another question altogether. He weighed his options.

"I'm fucking suicidal." He mumbled, but seeing no other way DeWitt slipped from behind the crate and walked confidently, head up, doing his best to pretend he belonged there.

Amazingly, the soldiers paid him no mind, the two guards at the door eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing. Bookers heart pounded as he pushed the great blue door open and slipped inside, the first thing Booker DeWitt was met with was a wall of warning signs! In big, bold bright red and white letters the words; "WARNING: SPECIMEN IS DANGEROUS." adored the great walls, a grim looking skull picture adding emphasis alongside the foreboding text.

He withdrew the handkerchief he'd pocketed and wiped his brow, walking forward calmly, but quickly. He knew that his short form wasn't going to attract too much attention; the place was a beehive of activity, there were far fewer soldiers here, but the men who were here were milling about like ants, comparing notes, moving between stations and writing down observations. Booker advanced through the complex, keeping his head level, his eyes shot from wall to wall, from pictures and graphs to complex diagrams and timetables. Every man in here seemed to know what his job was, and Booker quickly realised that this entire tower was a science experiment. He didn't want to believe it, but as he walked further, he encountered a graph titled "Morphology", on it were drawn 4 female silhouettes, various notes and graphs connecting them, from smallest to biggest, all 4 marked with an individual age, from 4 years old through to 17. DeWitt clenched his fists, what kind of perverted fucking sadists experiment on a 4 year old? He was going to get the girl out of this bloody madhouse.

The facility got more and more complex, and more sparsely populated as he made his way through it, people were eyeing him now, undoubtedly some had figured that he didn't belong. He'd gotten through the entrance door with his skyhook easily enough, all these people must get here via the skylines, he'd figured. But everyone had taken theirs off, stored it somewhere, and Booker walked awkwardly trying to keep his hands crossed to make the brass mechanism less obvious. The rooms themselves were no longer filled with scientific observations, but now with heavy machinery. There were no ceiling lights, but lightning arcing between pylons and receptors which bathed the rooms in a toxic blue glow. It was loud, the crackling of electricity, constant hum of machinery, DeWitt could barely hear himself. The amount of people glancing over their shoulders at DeWitt was now worrisome, he sped up, moving between the rooms quickly, his pace just short of running speed. Ahead of him he spied an elevator and beelined towards it, mashing the "UP" button with his fist he found that he'd been holding his breath and allowed himself to exhale once the doors had shut behind him and he was ascending.

Booker may have been able to sneak through the science complex with reckless audacity, but something told him it wouldn't be that easy. He wasn't wrong. The elevator door opened and immediately there was a checkpoint, 4 soldiers stood by a hatch, the floor was no longer hardwood, no, this was the metal shell of the statue itself. The soldiers span startled, facing Booker, they started to raise their rifles, obviously confused. Booker didn't hesitate, his gun in his hand he unloaded four shots, each one resonating in the small steel room, each aimed at a mans head. All four men dropped to the ground, dead; their rifles clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Booker worked quickly, he stripped the four men of ammunition, picking up one of their rifles and throwing it over his shoulder by its strap. He was alert, ready for an alarm to sound, or for men to barge into the room, for some sort of combat… but nothing came. Resolving to keep moving, he twisted open the hatch lock and made his way onto a ramp, it took a good 15 minutes to ascend the ramps until he was close to the top of the tower. He understood now why no one had heard him shoot four men dead, there was no one to hear. He made it to another hatch, and a second, then a third. He'd lost count of which one this was, cranking it open as he had with the ones that came before. Only this time he came face to face with a scientist. On instinct DeWitt grabbed him by the collar and brought the skyhook to his neck, squeezing the trigger the mechanism dug in. With a sickening snap, the man sunk to the floor.

Booker stared at the body then looked at the wall in front of him. A lever was there, he pulled it, hard, and the wall opened; DeWitt stared at the girl whose photo was still in his breast pocket, she stared back calmly, and for a second Booker felt as if he'd been caught snooping. It was only after a few seconds, when the girl started to comb her hair that DeWitt understood the window must be one way. The girl was about 20, he guessed, her build petite, a slim waist and small perky breasts, long legs covered by a flowing blue dress, with a white blouse tucked into it. Underneath the navy collar was a loosely tied cravat. Most striking was the girls face, her delicate features afforded her a very kind appearance, friendly even, except for her eyes; big, blue, breathtakingly beautiful eyes… her eyes looked tired, melancholy.

Booker glanced again at the corpse of the man he'd just killed, and felt no remorse, he made his way through the hatch and through several more rooms like the one he'd just left, with more one way windows, he glanced into the open ones, seeing the girl as she slowly moved about her abode… her prison, he realised.

Finally he reached a steel door, a big red button present on the wall beside it, warning signs adorning the walls; Booker didn't need to be a scientist to figure out how to work this. Clenching a fist he slammed the red button down, instantly an alarm sounded, red light bathed the room.

"Damn it."

Booker was about to turn back, run to the nearest window, and try to shoot his way through it, when the mechanism of the massive door activated. Its gears grinded and the tumblers fell into place. With a hiss of air the doorway started to open.


	12. Chapter 12

Elizabeth jumped up when she heard a loud crack, she sprinted into the library, trying not to trip on her dress. She got there just in time to see one of the massive two-story bookshelves slide open! A gruff looking man emerged from behind it, trying to catch his breath. She gasped upon seeing him and hid behind a door frame, holding the comb she'd been using tightly in her hands. Peeking around the corner she saw the man looking around, trying to get his bearings. She ran out and flung the comb at him with pinpoint accuracy, before he could figure what was happening she'd flung the nearest book hitting him in the cheek.

"Ouch! Stop that!" The man yelled, falling backwards.

She flung yet another volume at him! And then another!

"That's enough!" He yelled again.

Elizabeth was running at him now, a heavy tome on astronomy in her hands raised over her head. The man covered his face with his hands as she brought the book down on him, not really sure why she was hitting him. Finally he reacted, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling hard, forcing Elizabeth to drop the book.

"I told you to knock it off!" he said, still holding her and rubbing his face with his free hand, a bruise already forming where the book had hit him.

Elizabeth struggled, trying desperately to get out of his grip, "Who are you? What do you want? Let! Me! GO!"

He finally obliged and Elizabeth pulled her arm from his grip, falling backwards from the momentum. The pair now both sat on their butts, dazed and confused, staring at each other. Elizabeth started to back away, pushing herself along the floor with her hands and feet, when the man reached out to her;

"Wait, I'm a friend, my name's DeWitt! I can get you out of here!"

Curiosity finally overwhelmed caution; the girl stopped, nervously she got up and approached him, allowing him a minute to get up as well. He got up slowly, as she stared at him with fascination, "A-are you… real?".

The man nodded,; "I'm here to get you out." he repeated, gently this time.

She stared at the portal he'd come through and became aware of the klaxon and the spinning red light. Still, torn between her fascination at this stranger and a way out… she turned and sprinted towards the door, running as fast as her legs could carry her, away from DeWitt, hoping, praying for freedom!

Booker ran after her and grabbed the girls arm; "You can't go through there!"

She struggled, trying to stare the man down. Her gaze was fiery, unyielding! "Let me go! You said we're getting out! Let me go!"

After a few seconds of struggling Elizabeth relented, she stopped fighting, her furiosity melted away and her eyes pleaded with him, her voice soft as a whisper, barely audible above the klaxon alarm. "Mr. DeWitt, please, I want to get out of here, I have to. I can't stay here any longer… I-I just can't!" She said, her lip quivering.

He released his grip on her wrist and slipped his hand into hers; how on earth would he explain what was going on behind that door? The scientists? The soldiers? That she was a "specimen" for god's sake! Seeing the girl was on the verge of tears he panicked, unsure of how to react he decided to just pull her close and hug her. Almost to his surprise she didn't struggle, but slid her arms around him and hugged back.

Elizabeth couldn't remember the last time she'd felt the touch of another human being, she wasn't sure she ever had. The man held her gently, and she couldn't help herself; she buried her face in his shoulder, crying, her emotions a jumble: desperation, surprise, fear and excitement all in one. Elizabeth made a split second decision to, perhaps naively, put her trust in this man.

Once Booker had let go of the girl he found she was reluctant to let go of him, her head still resting on his shoulder, even though her tears had stopped.

"Look miss, we don't have much time, we need to go now, where's another exit out o-"

A loud screech interrupted the end of his sentence, instantly the girl pushed him away and looked around, panicking! Voices could be heard coming from the portal Booker had passed through, soldiers no doubt.

"He's coming… y-you've gotta go!" she said, pushing him in no particular direction.

Booker looked around, trying not to panic himself, there were doorways but he'd already realised there was no way out of here if the main door was a hidden portal.

Elizabeth ran up the flight of stairs in the library, yelling at the top of her lungs; "JUST A MOMENT! I'M GETTING DRESSED!"

He didn't have to try and figure what she was going on about, he heard voices from the hallway, stooping to pick up the rifle he flung it over his shoulder and ran to the bookcase. Pressed up against it with his shoulder he pushed, his feet slipping along the hardwood. Finally the damned thing gave, with a loud screech it started to close. Booker turned, pressing his back up against it, his legs burning from the effort. Just as he shut it he looked up, staring at Elizabeth, the girl staring up at the ceiling and screaming commands inexplicably.

Her back was facing to a massive window, clouds and sky stretching out. Booker sighed with relief when he felt the click of the door, and heard the lock mechanism whirring into its fixed position. He'd bought them a few seconds, at least. He glanced back at Elizabeth, about to ask her what in hell she was doing when it struck him that the sky that had been blue before was suddenly blood red… and moving!

A zeppelin ascended, level with the window, its envelope painted with the letters "VOX POPULI" and its gondola, lined with open portholes, cannons protruding from each of them.

"ELIZABETH!" he screamed out, "GET D-" the thunder of cannon fire drowned him out, a volley came through the window, slamming into the rows of bookshelves, splintering the railings, annihilating the support columns! Booker was already sprinting up the stairs, the ground shaking below him. Wood splinters flew like shrapnel around him, threatening to shred his flesh.

Elizabeth had dived to the far end of the window, covering her head, Booker made it up the stairs and sprinted for her. Just as he stepped into the zeppelins firing line he caught a motion out of the corner of his eye. Had he blinked he'd have missed it; a massive black shadow had slammed into the zeppelin, taking it down. The cannon fire had stopped but Booker didn't, he dove, landing atop the girl, covering her body with his own in case more shrapnel came flying. Just as he landed he felt a massive shudder, as if the entire tower was going through an earthquake. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realised that it must have been the zeppelin crashing into the side of the edifice.

An unusual silence followed, DeWitt got up, and helped Elizabeth to her feet, they stared at the once-lavish library. The girl's mouth dropped, this room, where she'd spent countless hours, the room that'd been her home - destroyed. They weren't given much time to contemplate, within seconds Booker heard the familiar clicking of the lock coming from behind the bookcase.

He glanced behind him, and took a deep breath. His heart beat wildly at the thought of what he was about to do, but it was that or a certain death at the hands of Columbia's fucking finest! Without warning he wrapped his arms around Elizabeth, who yelped as he picked her up, and in a second's time he'd jumped out what used to be a window.

The next thing he knew he was falling through the air and smoke, blinded, though even the deafening roar of the wind could not overpower the girls screams as they plummeted. Booker looked down in panic, hoping he hadn't just jumped to his death and taken the poor lass with him.

There was no skyline. He pressed the trigger on the skyhook down as hard as he could, aiming it every which way, praying it would find purchase before they hit the round mass below them.

Booker shut his eyes and whispered "sorry", his arms still wrapped tightly around the girl's waist, but impact never came. Instead he was jerked forward, a cargo hook supporting them. It was DeWitt's turn to scream, not in fear but in pain; the motion was so sudden that the girl slipped from Bookers grasp, he grabbed at her blouse, tearing a strip! Her arm! Her wrist! Her hand! He held on, barely, their fingers locked! DeWitt groaned in pain, worried his arm may truly be dislocated. He looked down at the girl, her terrified eyes begging him not to let go!

Beneath them the ground was moving, they were flying, the round mass beneath them wasn't the ground he realised, but another zeppelin, fleeing from whatever hellish beast had felled the first. He felt his strength giving out, through clenched teeth he managed to say "Trust me", before letting go again. The pair plummeted, Booker had calculated this, at the right moment he held down the trigger again, and this time connected with a skyline, he yelled out again, letting Elizabeth slip from his grip, then he let himself fall again. Crumpling onto the ground of the rooftop just below them, he'd managed to break their fall using the skyline as a stopping point.

Elizabeth got to her feet, breathless, she was shaking, her heartbeat accelerated, breathing erratic. She crawled over to DeWitt, rolling him onto his back, his breathing was labored, he himself was bloody and bruised, unmoving.

Her brain told her to leave him, to run! She got up and backed away from him slowly, but stopped after a few steps; she couldn't. She looked up at the tower, it was so far away now… smoke rose from it, from the head, from a huge chunk missing in the abdomen, she realised the massive effigy was keeled over at an angle, in her minds eye she could see the melted twisted steel. Then she saw songbird circling it, shrieking incessantly. She was free, she thought briefly… aching, exhausted, but free.

She tugged at her choker, a habit she'd developed years ago, unsure of what to do. Her sheltered life was gone, now she had to save the man who had freed her. Gently she turned him onto his back, then slid her arms under his, looking behind her as she dragged him. The lack of real estate in Columbia called for very crowded buildings, and as such, most rooftops were interconnected, this roof was no exception. There were stairways and ladders, the rooftops themselves had protruding chimneys, air conditioning units and generators. Elizabeth dragged Booker to a door, he seemed to be unconscious. She let him go for a minute, turning to the door, it was locked, but that wasn't an issue, pulling a hairpin from her head she pressed it into the door's lock and manipulated the tumblers deftly, with a turn of her wrist and a push she silently swung the door open. Inside, as she'd hoped, was a maintenance closet, not glamorous, certainly, but it was unlikely anyone would look for them here.

With some difficulty she pulled DeWitt's body into the room, locking the door behind them. Under the storerooms electric light she could see the cuts and bruises on his body, his left shoulder, she noticed, was distended slightly. Gingerly, she slid her hand over his shoulder, and felt the protruding joint, his shoulder was dislocated. She had to relocate it, it would be merciful, relocating it while he was passed out, it'd be worse while he was awake. Her hands trembling, she unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it gingerly away. She winced when she saw the the awkward shape of his shoulder, but nevertheless wrapped her hands around his arm. The countless medical tomes she'd studied came to the forefront of her mind. Hours spent meticulously studying pictures and diagrams, memorizing techniques… why couldn't she remember them now? When she needed them!

She exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself; trusting her instinct she pulled DeWitt's arm hard, at an angle. DeWitt's eyes flew open, a torrent of curse words escaping his mouth. Violently he pushed the girl away and grabbed at his shoulder, wincing in pain, trying to catch his breath.

Elizabeth started to stammer nervously "y-your shoulder, it's, I-I mean was! It was dis-"

He cut her off gruffly, "It's ok." As his breathing evened out, he raised his head to look at her, his tone calm, honest. "Thank you."

She smiled a warm smile back at him.


End file.
